Twelve Days To Pontificate
by missflapjack
Summary: Tim’s got a secret admirer for the holidays. He’s actually not completely positive that he will make it through the experience alive.
1. Partridge In A Tree Thing?

_**Title:** Twelve Days To Pontificate – #1 – Partridge In A... Tree Thing_

_**Fandom:** NCIS_

_**Rating:** PG-13 (Um... sort of? Flapjack useth words. Soap deserving ones.)_

_**Disclaimer:** They all evade my grabby hands. Wah._

_**Warnings:** Extreme cheese. No spoilers. Set in season seven, just because McGee's all sexy and competent and muy bonito and that gets me hot. (And not to exclude everyone else... they are all perfect in my book.)_

_**Summary:** Tim's got a secret admirer for the holidays. He's actually not completely positive that he will make it through the experience alive._

_**Note:** Well, I introduce to you... my bulky holiday project. Big surprise, right? I was considering having this center around a fandom I've never experimented in before, but I just... oh, NCIS. It's my cleverly disguised Kryptonite, apparently. Anyway... this quite possibly could be the cheesiest thing I've ever written. (That's right, written, as in already; you didn't think I was actually going to attempt to write a chapter a day with the hectic season coming to a climax? I'm not that reliable, people!) This could be classified as Grade A fluff on crack, but I don't care. I want cute. I want sappy. I've been writing too many angsty / bittersweet pieces lately and I need a release in the form of Christmas joy, if you get my drift. You may guess what the pairing turns out to be, though, knowing me and what I love and what I've previously written and/or/most likely rambled on about; you can probably figure it out in the first few seconds upon glancing at this post. *wink* There's a grande hint for you. But I don't care if the 'surprise' is ruined (or rather, predictable in a completely pleasant way); I worked hard on writing this and to tell the truth, being a soulless, bandwagoning fluff monster is kinda fun. So read it, hate it, love it; point out all of my characterization flaws and the obvious lack of an enlightening plotline._

_I give you the first day of Christmas. Use it well, young grasshoppers._

* * *

"_On the first day of Christmas, my true love sent to me... __**a partridge in a pear tree**__."_

* * *

Timothy McGee was in a _bad_ mood. A really, really bad one. Like the kind where you just want to push the nearest jolly-faced, bell-jangling, ho-ho-ho'ing Satan... er, _Santa_ Claus into a patch of ice and watch his hospital bill rack up points. Christmas was not a happy season, despite the overabundance of feigned plastic joy. Those who were out shopping for people they thought they loved were miserable, running out of money and/or brain cells; steadily approaching a homicidal outbreak. Those who didn't have nearly enough money to even think about blowing their meager salaries on a y-chromosome deprived _Tickle Me Elmo_, or that _Zhu-Zhu_ piece of crap that looked like a hamster on acid had to stay home and convince their doe-eyed children that Santa was doing his best to make it a lovely Christmas; he just possibly might be running a little late that year. On account of not existing and all, darlings.

_Damn it, damn it, damn it_, with an fresh, extra helping of shit and maybe _go screw a reindeer_.

Tim was usually a pretty optimistic person, actually. Nerds had to be. He prided himself on being happy with his pleasant, prison-record free life. (Technically. That little 'incident' with Tony and the dogs and the whole stealing evidence thing had been a mere complication.) But _adult_ nerds with depressing jobs, no hope of a romantic future, and a habit of waking up on the wrong side of the bed every week and half point five degrees before the holiday season... they... well, they ended up feeling a little hopeless.

Tony looking up with those huge, optimistic-and-he-knew-it forest green eyes and singing out a, "Good morning, Sunshine!" when McGee practically threw his backpack into the side of his desk upon entering the bullpen was the wilted, rotten cherry on top of his already fantabulous shit sundae. For some childish reason that he had yet to know the acceptably rational answer to.

Tony's forehead crinkled minutely as he demonstrated nearly perfect use of his frowny face. "Did the Grinch steal your cookies?"

"Damn it, Tony, I am _not_ in the mood."

The frowny face transformed into an almost delighted, _oh ho!_ glimmer of recognition. The grin that spread its way across Tony's mischievous features was nearly Cheshire cat-like in quality. He steepled his fingers. "McGoo?" There was the expectant tone, the edge in the senior field agent's voice as he prompted Tim into spilling his heartfelt story over hearty cup of bromance and then, subsequently, teased him endlessly for it.

"Tony, _please_," McGee growled pathetically (it was more of a whine) as he sat down and rubbed the tips of his fingers rhythmically into his forehead. "Not today. I need pain medication. And a straight jacket."

Tony eyed him with a puzzled look – because, come on, really, _McGee_ in a bad mood? – that Tim could detect from the eyes in the back of his head. Eyes that he had developed involuntarily after working for six years with an overgrown manboy. It wasn't the holidays, not really. It was everything. It was one of those days in which McGee had woken up vulnerable and despondent, and to top it all off, nearly drove into a semi on the way to work. That was _not_ like him. In fact, despite the verity that it had been completely _his_ fault, he had actually, momentarily considered pulling out his firearm and shooting the beer-guzzling, polar bear look-alike's tires off.

That had also been not the sort of thinking that Timothy sported on a daily basis. Maybe he had caught the flu; that had been going around, hadn't it? Or some rare brain fungus. It could happen.

"Timothy McGee. Pal. Buddy. Inquiring minds want to know the reason for your obvious displeasure on this fine, peaceful, snowy December morning."

"It's _nothing_, you overzealous squirrel. Leave things alone and they might actually mend themselves, Tony. And get off my desk."

Tony pouted from his sideways perch on the edge of said desk. He had a habit of appearing out of nowhere. He was quite proud of it, actually. "Don't get your what I am sure are very fashionable pantaloons in a bunch, McGrowlybear. I just... thought you looked particularly murderous today." There could have been something sincere in the spark that flashed momentarily in Tony's eyes, but none of it mattered because whoever it was meant for wasn't even paying attention, anyway.

McGee tried to keep his hands from digging dangerously into his keyboard, he really did, but they had creepy little finger minds of their own and Tony noticed. Tony not only noticed, but he actually backed away, too. And that was almost more unusual than Tim wanting to assassinate a truck driver. Almost.

"...Sorry. I'll leave you alone."

_Just like that? _McGee was about to physically reach up, un-wrinkle his set, anger-molded forehead, and lash out an intelligent, 'Wait, what?' when Ziva materialized in front of the elevator folding her hands like a wise, grey-bearded maharishi. The only difference was a... creatively dressed Abigail Scuito clinging off her arm and grinning from ear to ear.

Women and the holidays. _This will be a delightful week_, the sarcastic part of McGee bellowed from the recesses of his mind. Sarcasm had to climb out of the stained, rusty old file cabinet and dust himself off first, though, so the voice was sounding a bit parched.

Tony slid out of McGee's popped and rampaged personal bubble with a grin, eying Ziva and Abby. "What have we here, ladies?"

"Merry Christmas, Tony!" Abby waddled over in a flurry of bells and jangling accessories. With the grace of a ballerina and the stamina of a major league football player, she tackled him.

"Abby, I... I don't know how to tell you this. It's going to be very hard, but... there's an entire _two_ weeks until the festivities. And a lot can happen in two weeks," Tony ended with a wink; voice already running out of vital oxygen the longer he spoke and the longer the forensic scientist kept a death grip around his ribs. "Abby," he wheezed, and she promptly let go in a flash of sparkling teeth, launching into what was most likely a premeditated frenzy.

"Tony, how can you _say_ that? Two weeks goes by like this," Abby growled, snapping her fingers in his face to enunciate her point. "I have no time to lose. The earlier you start, the better. I need presents. I need to spread Christmas cheer for all to hear. I need to find a garbage band version of _Deck the Halls_! And if I have to do all that, who, may I ask, is going to convince Gibbs to let me put a reindeer headband on him this year? Time flies! My lab isn't decorated yet! I think my hair's actually falling out, Tony, look, there is a bald spot right there and it's not a figment of my imagination, I swear-"

Tony backed away slowly with hands spread in front of him, opting for 'hiding' behind his desk and silently praying to the entire nation of Keebler's Elves that she wasn't going to transform into some rabid, holiday stress-related beast and start throwing things. Ziva followed suit.

"Abby, not you _too_. Honestly? Christmas is an over-hyped propaganda setup designed to drive innocent civilians into spurts of unexplainable rage and selfishness," McGee groaned, and instantly three pairs of wide eyes were on him.

"What?"

Abby almost looked as if she would start crying at any moment. "McGee? But... that's not like you! You love Christmas!"

"I've never specifically _said_ that. I usually go along with it just to make you happy." And wow, the negativity was making Tim really blunt. It would have been satisfying if he hadn't seen Abby's smile melt slowly off of her face. It had been a half-crazed, frazzled, mildly disturbing smile at that, but the moment it was gone, so was most of McGee's stomach acid.

"Yes. Yes, you... um... _have_," Abby replied defiantly, as if forcing herself to believe it. "Oh God. Now we're all going to have to watch _Elf_. I can see that the celebratory spirit is seriously _lacking_." With that, she stomped away; oversized glittering bells tied to her boots jangling with each deafening step.

"Well, McScrooge. Just look what you've done."

Ziva blinked. Four years of Abigail Scuito drilling each and every American custom into her head, from hanging stockings next to a fire hazard to manipulating children into accepting gifts from a fat bearded man, and she still couldn't understand why some people took Christmas so _literally_.

* * *

Three hours of paperwork later, in which McGee had been actually blissful in doing something that required almost no human contact, and they were back on schedule with the dead bodies and everything that reminded him of how much he hated people.

Good lord, that sounded pathetic.

He was kneeling down and snapping pictures of a young female petty officer; alcohol-stained locks of dark brunette hair forming a halo around her heart-shaped face, and thinking... _God, she was gorgeous._ It was one of those wretched, _what the hell were you thinking, world?_ moments, and hell, it was _painful_.

It was also safe to say that Tim didn't expect Tony to sneak up next to him.

The camera fumbled from its loose grip, nearly tumbling onto the young girl's leg before Tim grappled for it, growling out a spiral of crystallized ice into the cold December air.

Tony almost snickered, but he totally kept his cool. Pun possibly intended.

"God damn it, Tony! You could have caused me to compromise evidence! Or, er, something!"

Tony held up his hands. "Um, whoa. I was simply stepping closer to investigate this _crime_, because, uh, y'know, someone _died_ and all, and here you are being all, 'Grahhr, me so angry, let me snap off my dashingly charismatic coworker's head because he breathed my air!'"

Tim's eyes narrowed fractionally, and he cocked his head to the side; minutely pretending that Tony wasn't there.

"Tim. Oh, silly, silly boy. You know that trick never works on me anymore." Tony slapped a hand onto McGee's shoulder, puffing out his chest and grinning broadly. "I am the grand inquisitor of all that goes on in the lives of my coworkers. It's my specialty. _Every_one comes to me when they're in woe. I can tell that you need a shoulder to cry on. Or at least sniffle lightly whilst pretending that you aren't crying, because we're men here and that's what friends do to help each other."

Tim turned his head, then sighed; a simple exertion of air leaving him feeling at least three years older. "Are you done?"

"Yeah. I really didn't know what to add to that sorry excuse for a... a... damn. McGee. Words?"

"Superfluous rant?"

"Yes, _thank you_. You, always, with the thesaurus brain and the explaining stuff." Tony spread out his arms to flail about his hands in what was most likely an attempt at showing McGee how... orb... shaped he was.

"Abby put you up to this, didn't she?"

"And _there_ you are with the jumping to conclusions."

"Tony."

Tony scrunched up his nose, looking thoroughly as though it pained him to tell the truth.

"Out with it. Come on, I know she doesn't want me 'suffering in the month of Jesus's birth', or whatever nonsensical crap she spoon fed to you in her lab after bribing you with sugar cookies and the promise of her special mistletoe; and you're in for a big disappointment, by the way."

"Hey! I'm not that gullible! And I... come on, McGoo. You're grumpy. Swearing like an old man with a hangover. It's not like you, and sorry if this doesn't sound sincere enough or whatever, but I actually was _not_ lured into Abby's lab with the promise of freshly baked morsels, thank you very much." Tony fiddled with the folded edge of his trench coat. "She hasn't even made any yet."

Tim rolled his eyes. "Okay, so you're sincere. What do you want me to do about it?"

Tony rocked on his heels like a kid begging for candy, pushing out his lower lip. It was frankly creepy, seeing a grown man do that, but then again... it was DiNozzo. "Tell me things," Tony sang. "Talk to meee..."

"There's nothing to talk about," McGee snarled out shortly, stomping to the other side of the corpse and trying (and failing) to be suave about it. "I'm angry, it's cold, and truck drivers need to keep their eyes on the road. That's all I'm saying."

Tony (suavely) walked over to McGee, flicking the edge of his cap absently and snapping more pictures. They were silent like that for a moment, lost in the quiet of the biting winter air and the sound of Gibbs in the background snapping at a witness for being incompetent and too 'damn wordy'.

Ah, Christmas.

"You know, I'm not gonna tease you, or anything. Everyone has their bad days. I just thought you never had them."

Tim raised an eyebrow.

"Okay, yeah, that made no sense."

The work was short. Traffic had basically been on their side on the way to the crime scene, but Ducky had yet to arrive and the snow was picking up.

Gibbs was pinching his nose, most likely clenching his teeth as the bar owner whined, "C'mon, man, it's Christmas! Or like, getting there. Whatever. Tons of payin' customers, y'know? The bar was _loud_, the people were _generous_..." All the while never really catching on that Gibbs was not in the mood to hear the nervous sweaty man's entire life story, and if he wasn't careful there would be pain involved.

"Abby kind of went into a decorating frenzy after what you said. It's like your blatant pessimism fueled her," Tony added carefully, cutting awkwardly through the tension with the skill of a three-fingered butcher.

"Great."

"You know, it's cool if you want to actually tell me what's going on. Like if someone..." Tony almost skirted around the topic for fear of unleashing angry Tim-wrath. Or, god, hurting his feelings. Years ago he wouldn't even have considered that. "...um, died...? If it's writer's block? Because, if you want, we could go over the worst topics first, and if I miss any just let me know. Okay. Sarah's turning tricks. Your typewriter exploded on contact. A level _six_ sorcer-"

"Don't even start." Tim groaned. "You know, this consoling thing; you're really bad at it."

"Tell me about it. I was _not_ very popular in kindergarten. Did you know five year old girls actually expect more than a Ring-Ding and a pat on the back for accidentally hitting them in the face with a Nerf ball?"

The edge of Tim's mouth twitched. _No._ He would not smile. He would not even _give_ Tony the boyish satisfaction of pulling a curl out of one single _inch_ of his mou-

"Why, Timmy! Is that a smile I see on the horizon?"

Damn it.

Tony turned to McGee, snapping out a precise photograph of the wintry goddess's still form without even looking; the corner of his own mouth crinkling in a smile. With Tony's smiles, though, it was imperative to figure out if they were of the fake variety, as in cheer-you-up-because-there's-awesome-benefits-in-it-for-me, or please-for-the-love-of-everyone-who-doesn't-know-who-Gary-Cooper-is-be-happy-because-I-_want_-you-to-be. Because, despite his obvious denial to being more than the world's most astounding special agent with delicately carved facial features and hair that purposefully fell in all the right places, Tony DiNozzo was an emotional roller coaster. Or at least a Tilt-A-Whirl. Something that appeared fun and carefree when you first glanced at it, but one slight mistake, one infinitesimal thing gone wrong in the structure and it could all fall apart.

"You're a mean one, Mr. Grinch," Tony purred out playfully, rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet. His smile reached his eyes and it was the sincere kind; for a moment tempting Tim to grin back and go for an attempt at their familiar banter. "You really are a heel. You're as cuddly as a cactus; you're as charming as an eel-"

"My God, Tony, stop. For the love of every song in the world that ever had a clever rhythm or interesting lyrics in it at _all_, please," McGee groaned, but he was lighthearted and for some reason, slightly less irate, so he just went with it. The small, rare feeling of stability.

"Uh-huh. Sure, McFrosty. Whatever you say." Tony yawned. "It's quiet," he murmured, as an afterthought. It really was. The crime scene was almost out of another world; quiet and peaceful for the bloody stage of a murderous act; a small pocket of alleyway tucked behind a grimy bar. The fresh, freefalling snow nearly masked the stench of old beer, sounds muffled themselves in the ashen paradise, and Gibbs had most likely stomped off somewhere to call Ducky for the third time in a row and end up smashing his phone. Again.

"Tony... it's not that I'm unhappy."

"What?" Tony's ears almost visibly twitched as he rapidly blinked a snowflake out of his eye; obviously not expecting Timothy to start the nitty-gritty of their conversation so quickly. "I mean... what?"

McGee grinned. There it was. And he wasn't even going to take it back. "I'm feeling a little..." He shifted on his feet. _Come on._ It was only Tony, and what was he going to do? They were past the jokes, mostly. "It's pathetic. I'm feeling hopeless and... a little pessimistic. Holidays tend to do that to me. I'm just an expert at _pretending_ to be happy."

"Oh, cut the crap," Tony sighed. "You're not an emotionally distant person, McGee. You may _think_ you are, but you like being around people. I can see that, you know. I'm more than a pair of eyes and an awesome butt."

McGee subtly ignored the latter comment. "I know. Maybe I'm just being ridiculous."

"Well, if there's anything I've come to know about authors – and when I say that, I mean you – is that that they always over-think everything. Every small detail, every emotional defect. They're eccentric, jumpy, and naturally impossible to please. Uh, and I say that with all the love in the world," Tony added.

"It's just... you've got to learn when to let go of some things, McGee. I've always considered myself a roll with the punches, go with the flow, take whatever life throws rudely in my direction kind of guy. I know that wouldn't please you, living like that. You've gotta analyze everything." Tony twisted his lip. "Damn, all of that came out insulting. What I'm trying to say is... I'm not a therapist. I can't tell you how to think, but I _am_. Be happy, Tim. Live life or something. All of this..." He flailed weakly at McGee. "...all of this depression stuff is pointless. And probably all of my ranting is, too. But I want you to take something out of it. You've got a ton of people who care about you."

Tony finished his speech with a punctuated nod, slightly breathless and pink-nosed from the cold air, and McGee snorted affectionately. It was... dare he think it, sweet – or some form of it – that Tony himself had actually attempted to raise his spirits. He really hoped there hadn't been any cookies involved.

Tony stood up from his crouch, then, brushing the feathery snow off of his pant legs and stretching. "You should talk to Abby," he added casually, scratching the back of his neck. "Christmas; it means a lot to her. More so than you think. She craves togetherness. She can't handle it when one person isn't there for her. It screws up her whole perspective."

McGee stared at the pallid young girl's features below him, looking but not seeing. "I know."

Tony nodded, knowing that Tim couldn't see it but not particularly minding. He had evidence to bag, Gibbs to introduce a new cellular device to, and maybe there would be a few extra seconds to check his Italian leather soles for water damage. "See you at headquarters."

Tim twisted his lip; pondering. "Tony?"

"Yeah?"

"Thanks. Really."

"You're welcome, McGee."

* * *

Tim was padding around his apartment hours later, pacing; it was a bad habit and he knew it, but there were some things that were hard to shake. He was _thinking_ again, regrettably, about life and happiness and love and every shoddily composed fortune cookie he ever had the bad taste to read, and it really was pathetic.

Timothy McGee was not a happy person.

"Damn it," he griped loudly to the empty air that wouldn't answer, flopping down on the chair he used primarily for writing. He was alone. He had always felt alone. Oh god, Tony had been spot-on. Authors always analyzed every small detail. But maybe he was overreacting. Coffee. Yes. Copious amounts of unnecessary caffeine would help...

McGee stood once more, scrubbing a hand over his face in exhaustion. He couldn't go to bed. Sleep would only lead to lying awake staring at the mocking shadows on the ceiling and trying not to think about what it would be like if he really did have no one. And that was the most nauseating, emotional, depressing thought ever...

_Knock, knock._

Tim blinked, staring at his apartment door almost hesitantly through a blurry pair of sleep-deprived eyes. He hadn't been making any noise whatsoever, merely wallowing in his own dismal menagerie of glum, so it couldn't have been the neighbor upstairs. The last time he checked, Sarah hadn't been caught up in any elaborate college murder schemes. But if it was someone from work trying to barge in to 'attempt' to cheer him up like Tony had earlier, he didn't really know if he could handle that. Especially if it was Gibbs with a bottle of hard liquor, or worse, Abby clutching at a carefully chosen set of Christmas DVDs.

_Answer the door, you girl._

Well, McGee did. You know what they say – curiosity killed the NCIS special field agent with nothing else to lose. And there was no mouthful of Tony teeth grinning maniacally at him; not a terrified baby sister dripping with someone else's fatal blood. He glared out into the empty hallway like an angry, wounded animal; nearly slamming the door before he noticed _it_.

A small, decorative pine tree, from the looks of it, stood only about a foot high; tiny and vulnerable at the foot of his doorstep. It was rough, though, real and wild; Timothy realized as the stinging scent of pine graced his nostrils. He kneeled down to pick it up, almost reluctantly as if expecting it to explode or dissolve or burst into flame (hey, it could happen; he had consumed quite a bit of coffee already); nearly dropping it when a _bird_ poked a tiny russet head out from the thinned branches and let out a squawk that couldn't have possibly been big enough for its body.

Tim's heart thudded. Who the hell leaves a pathetic excuse for a creature tied to a pathetic excuse for a midget tree outside the door of a pathetic excuse for a person? It didn't make sense. No one did that. It was probably for a neighbor, yeah, that was it. Someone lost their, um... bird and tree thing and both were thoughtfully returned to them in the middle of the night...? Damn it, rational thinking was difficult at two in the morning.

His hand felt around to the bottom of the pot that the miniature 'tree' was encased in, and McGee's fingers came away clutching a small note typed out on an ordinary old piece of printer paper.

_Merry Christmas. From a friend._

* * *

_**Note:** Good gravy, this was depressing. And longer than I meant for it to be. Don't even question the blatant disregard of a creative ending; I was kind of watching Psych while writing that (yes, I win at multitasking), and it happened to be Lights... Camera... Homicidio! from season two, with the drama and the Spanish soap opera and Shawn wearing what was most likely rose blush and guuuuuhhh. I have a weak disposition and I'm easily distracted. Plus, this whole updating every day thing is stressing me out. If you know me, you know that I take my own sweet time with writing... Anyway. Feel free to comment. Or kill me. Whichever is quicker. (New chapter tomorrow, if I don't die first!)_


	2. The Thought That Counts

_**Title:** Twelve Days To Pontificate – #2 – The Thought That Counts_

_**Fandom:** NCIS_

_**Rating:** PG-13_

_**Disclaimer:** All I want for Christmas is my Tony/Tim, my Tony/Tim, my Tony – ah, hello... there..._

_**Warnings:** Extreme cheese. (McGee. His butt. Tony. His jawline. Are you getting the picture, or do I need a Da Vinci?)_

_**Summary:** Tim's got a secret admirer for the holidays. He's actually not completely positive that he will make it through the experience alive._

_**Note:** The second day; but I think you've already got that. Except it's not posted until the seventh day. Whatever. Excuse me if I'm not technically posting these 'every day'. But they shall all be finished by Christmas. I hope._

* * *

"_On the second day of Christmas, my true love sent to me... __**two turtle doves**__."_

* * *

"Someone sent you a _parrot?_" Ziva's eyebrows knotted together. "What a strange gift."

"It's a partridge," Tim replied automatically. "Not nearly as colorful. Very _loud_."

The Israeli stared at him in not-so-subtle half concentration, obviously trying to remember what in the name of unjustly spelled words such as colonel and bologna a partridge was.

"I looked it up. And the latter – from experience, Ziva. I am not kidding. That thing shrilled into the early hours of the morning. I had to go out and buy a cage-"

"No you did _not_," Ziva exclaimed.

Tim paused for a moment; because despite the overabundance of Grinchy not-joy he was feeling that week, there had been something small and vulnerable about that little grey bird with the oddly shaped head. And being the perfectionist he had always thought himself to be (or at least the animal activist that Abby had always forced him to be); he had literally gone out to a twenty-four-hour drug store in the middle of the night to buy a small plastic cage and had consequently draped a sheet over it. Not that he liked the thing; it would never shut up and the mere existence of its plump, little sadly colored behind had Jethro salivating puddles all over the floor.

"It's not like I was going to throw it out the window or anything," Tim growled halfheartedly.

"What was that... what did you say accompanied the partridge thing?"

"A tree."

"An entire tree?" Ziva frowned again. "I am still fuzzy on the whole concept of American holiday gift giving-"

"No, no; it's a weird gift here, too. And it was a miniature tree. The partridge couldn't even fit in it; it was tied to the delicate little trunk with a piece of twine wrapped in ribbon." McGee tapped his chin, contemplating the idea he had earlier that morning. "No pears, though."

"What?" Ziva glared at him, but in the millisecond that her coffee-colored eyes centered on his brooding expression, she gasped out loud and slammed a hand down on her desk. A nearby box of pencils rattled. Tim jumped from his awkward perch atop a slightly askew office chair.

"A partridge in a _pear_ tree!" Ziva shrieked; abnormally giddy with her realization of the ancient carol. "It was from your true love, McGee," she cooed in a tone that he couldn't place as sarcastic or affectionate. A thinned image of Abby snaked its way through his memories, from far back when she was that mysterious girl with the husky voice and ideas that would either rock his world or send its delicate skyscrapers crashing down to sea level. He used to think she was his true love. Could it...

"No," Tim answered vigorously, shaking his head and focusing his vision on the dim bullpen lights as Abby fell out of his psyche with a screech and a hopefully imagined, 'You're toast, McGee! No more incubator cookies for you!'

"That's a song, Ziva. Even you shouldn't be that gullible. Plus, _no_ pears." And the note had said, _friends_. If it was his true love or no – not that he believed in phrases that sparkly princesses in old Disney movies declared at random – they wouldn't have left a note mentioning that they were just a friend... would they? 'Admirer' _was_ a bit cheap. 'One true lover' was more than a bit creepy.

"Gifts do not have to be exact, do they? 'It is the thought that counts', or no? Did I get that wrong?"

Tim never had the chance to answer, for a soft, roguish voice drifted into his left ear and purred, "Pears? Planning on starting a farm, McDonald?"

McGee snapped his head around to hiss out something along the lines of, "Can it, ignoramus," (pun intended?) but he didn't expect Tony to be so damn _there_; inches away from his nose; buoyant jade eyes flashing above a curled lip that conveyed simply, 'Gotcha.' And it wouldn't have been a bit different from every other time Tony came up to him and invaded his personal property, or when they were caught up in a whirlwind of their own little heated arguments, but his heart pounded. In the painful, just-ate-old-chinese-takeout way. Thank the decency gods that he ducked in the last millisecond and shot Tony a feigned glare before all the blood in his body fought to gain access to his cheeks. In Tim's unfortunate case, though, eyes weren't windows to the soul. They were more like the hideous curtains that his mother kept wanting to change every other month. His quick-to-redden facial expressions were, and it didn't even matter that he had mostly fought off the urge to become easily embarrassed. It still _happened_.

Tony sniffed and shrugged off his coat once behind the safety of his desk; dropping his backpack with a thump and yanking off his designer scarf so quickly he most likely got neck burn. "Whatever, fine, McPomegranate. Don't tell me about your peary awesome geek misadventures. I merely heard on the grapevine-"

"Any more fruit puns and my pencil's gonna slip, Tony. Out of my hand and then its fate's decision on whether or not you should keep those eyes of yours."

Tony stuck out his tongue childishly in the exact second Gibbs slapped him upside the head with a generously substantial manila folder.

Ziva attempted to impart some Christmas spirit; it was, after all, her duty as a civil servant...

"Crashing through the snow, on a one horse open sleigh-"

Gibbs closed his eyes.

* * *

"Abby?" Tim paused cautiously in the second doorway of the forensic scientist's lab, peering around until he spotted her dangling off a ladder and hanging up hot pink skull garlands.

"Tony?" Abby called, not looking down from the wall, instead flailing her arm about in Tim's direction. "Hand me the stapler gun, you lump; I've got work to-"

"It's me, Tim." McGee frowned as her pigtail-adorned head whipped around. She had never mistaken him for anyone else before.

"Oh! Sorry, McGee. Tony's just been coming down here a lot lately and... uh, never mind. What do you want?"

"I come bearing gifts, oh wise one." McGee held up the thick manila folder with a cheesy grin and waggled his eyebrows. Abby's smile fell as she hopped off the ladder with a resounding clump; plucking the folder lightly from his fingers.

"Evidence?" Abby's voice raised hopefully.

"Paperwork."

"Damn."

They were silent like that for a moment; Abby looking from her unfinished garland ceremony (there were certain steps; Christmas decorating was not something to be taken lightly) and back at the packet she clutched unenthusiastically in her palm. "Wanna help me hang stuff?"

"Uh..." His eyes darted convincingly towards the paperwork.

"I'll do it later."

McGee gave in, and it wasn't until shortly after when he was stretched uncomfortably beneath the garland, holding it up and witnessing the destruction of his arm muscles, that he popped the question.

"Are you still mad at me?"

Abby spoke through the nail in her mouth – the stapler gun had failed miserably and was currently going through early retirement – and tried not to sway on top of the ladder. Tim grabbed her boot with a free hand until she snapped at him that his 'helping' was increasing the chance of her falling.

"For what?"

"Humbuggery."

She snorted, which was a strange, metallic, muffled noise with a nail barrier added to it. "Nuh-uh. I could never stay mad at you. You're like the ever dependable Robin to my dark, emotionally repressed Batman. And with that saucy new ass of yours," Abby tapped him on the head with the end of a red hammer. "You probably wouldn't look half bad in tights."

"Please don't."

"It's hard not to," Abby finished with a grin.

"I was feeling particularly crappy yesterday," McGee added once more; shifting so that he pressed a hip against the side of the wobbling ladder to hold it steady. "I shouldn't have taken it out on everyone else. Especially that truck driver," he grumbled offhandedly.

"Whatever, Timmy. It's not like your midlife crisis isn't that obvious."

_Yeah, really, it's getting pretty... whatjustafuckingminute. WHAT?_

"Mid... life...?" McGee didn't deny it, oh no; his voice wavered a bit on the last word, but... "Excuse me? Crisis? _Mid?_"

Abby shot him a strange look over the glow of the fuchsia skulls' eye sockets. "It's pretty common, Tim. When one starts to reach the halfway point in their life, and said life has not exactly been that fulfilling, one may start to act a little abnormal." Someone had obviously been chatting with a certain medical examiner, but that was far from the point. And really, point? As in halfway? What _was_ the point to that?

"Halfway point?" Yes, there was a definite, audible squeak. "I've barely turned thirty! I'm just establishing my life, which, by the way, has so _too_ been fulfilling."

"_Please_," Abby snorted. "You're obviously not happy. Sorry to break it to you. And you may be barely thirty; McGee, but you're an author. That fact alone has to add on at least twenty years. Authors always act older than their age. Technically," Abby declared, shaking a finger in his direction and looking for all the world like she was pulling every sentence out of her hat (despite the lack of one), which wasn't far off from Tony's method of yanking meaningless declarations out of his ass. "Technically you should be past your crisis by now. Way to finally catch up, genius."

McGee glared at her. "Whatever. I'm not at that stage yet, thank you very much. And I'm very happy with my position in life."

"What about your romantic position?"

Tim blinked at her. She blinked back, appearing only slightly guilty in Abby-sense to have asked something that sensitive. He looked down; eyebrows knitting together. "I don't think that's relevant to anything, Abs."

"I'll take that as a _grande nada_."

"Look, where do you get off interrogating me about shit like this?" Tim snapped, clenching his fist around the hammer he held; grateful for the fact that eye contact was nearly impossible in their decidedly awkward garland-hanging stance.

"McGee! Settle down! I'm _sorry_." Abby sniffed; affronted. "You really are in a bad mood," she muttered under her breath.

"Damn it," Tim groaned. "I didn't mean that. I mean... ugh. See? I really am going crazy."

"Whoa," Abby declared suddenly; eyes widening. "Maybe you're a special case."

"A head case?"

"_Special_. Like, you're having menopause early or something."

"Abby... men don't get menopause."

"Psh. Maybe the men _you_ know don't."

Tim really didn't want to delve deeper into that conversation, so he left it at that; stepping back when the garland finally stuck obediently to the wall, basking the lab in a cherry glow. He peered around, admittedly smiling a little. The girl really did know how to decorate.

"Abby... what's this?" McGee bent down and picked something out from under her small Christmas tree that hadn't been fully ornamented yet. She climbed down the ladder and looked over his shoulder. "You went shopping already?"

Abby frowned. "No... _no way_. Gibbs totally snuck in here, didn't he? McGee! Did you see him and not tell me? Not fair!"

"No!" Even as he said it, Tim actually wondered. The man was probably some kind of mysterious silver-haired crime fighting sage that would have given Yoda a run for his money, but really? Could he have missed him? "I swear." More or less.

The package he held in his hand was small, wrapped in a simple, shimmering, forest green wrapping paper that completely clashed with the theme of pink, black, and occasional crimson that decorated Abby's lab. There was a tag on it, which Tim couldn't help folding open with a free hand. Abby gasped. "It's for you!"

"Abby, seriously, if this is a joke I'm not going to think twice before enacting intense revenge-"

"Oh my god, McGee, you are such a girl sometimes. Open it. It's not from me. Really." Abby crossed her heart and stared at him seriously from underneath her abnormally long, black lashes.

Tim sighed and made brief work of peeling the paper away and opening the plain cardboard box. It held a note and two lumps of tissue paper nestled in moss green tissue paper, and... _oh_.

Another winged present.

His 'true love' had managed to sneak a pair of chocolate doves into Abby's more-often-than-not fortress of a lab.


	3. They Doth Protest Too Much

_**Title:** Twelve Days To Pontificate – #3 – He Doth Protest Too Much_

_**Fandom:** NCIS_

_**Rating:** PG-13_

_**Disclaimer:** Lawyers sing; are you listening? On the phone, David B's freaking. I stole his best boys; I made them my toys, now my side job as a writer's probably canned._

_**Warnings:** Extreme cheese. Or tinsel. Whatever your preference._

_**Summary:** Tim's got a secret admirer for the holidays. He's actually not completely positive that he will make it through the experience alive._

_**Note:** Nyuk, nyuk, nyuk. The third whatever. Three hens, huh? Mwah. I'm having the hardest time figuring out how to make these gifts more creative. The first two chapters were just ridiculously unimaginative..._

* * *

"_On the third day of Christmas, my true love sent to me... three__** French hens.**__"_

* * *

"You've had a secret admirer this whole time and you _never_ told me? Not once? I thought we were, like, best friends, McGee!"

Tim groaned. "I swear I didn't really _know_ about it until today."

"But you said you got the partridge last night. And that reminds me," Abby declared loudly; shaking a finger in front of Tim's nose. "Are you treating the poor thing properly? Jethro hasn't eaten it, has he?"

"No, Abs. I bought it a cage."

The forensic scientist raised an eyebrow as her mouth quirked up in bemusement. "Really?"

Tim glared. "Well, I couldn't just let it... you know what, never mind. The point is," he murmured, staring down at the delicately carved chocolate doves in his hand, obviously store-bought but still gorgeous nonetheless. "What do I do?"

Abby snorted. "What do you mean, what do you do? First, eat those. They're either going to melt or I'll steal them, I swear. Second, do nothing. You shouldn't overanalyze this! If you have a secret admirer, obviously they want to make you happy, and if each gift is going to coincide with that song, it's going to be pleasant surprise after pleasant surprise. You're supposed to let it happen. The happiness." She waved her hands around. "Let it wash over you and maybe your cold, Grinchy, stone of a heart will melt into something moldable at least before the holidays are over."

"This is going to drive me crazy, isn't it?" Tim sighed. He knew this would happen. His 'secret admirer' was going to surprise him again and again with nothing but an old Christmas carol as guide. McGee was going to be on edge for at least a week and a half with nothing to do about it. It was almost pathetic that he still couldn't see the good in this situation...

"Yeah, well. Knowing you, it might. But isn't it the least bit exciting? Timmy, someone loves you enough to shower you with gifts when you're feeling the most sad and vulnerable. This Christmas is totally going to kick ass," Abby declared in her signature, roundabout way, clomping to the other side of her lab with a black gloss-lipped grin a mile wide. "Good thing I already started baking," she muttered while grabbing her skeleton-arm oven mitts as she prepared to pull the first batch of Abby-cookies out of the incubator.

And just like that, the conversation had passed; like the eye of a storm that was far too big for McGee to fathom. He really didn't know how to react. No one had ever apparently cared this much about Tim to set up an elaborate scheme to win his heart over on Christmas, much less any other time. Abby was sweet in her own little, slightly eccentric ways, but even she hadn't gone too over the top in their short-lived relationship. It might have been strictly platonic if there hadn't been the whole physical contact thing, and he really needed to take the next exit off of that brain train, because Abby was standing right there making cookies and bringing up past memories had never served Tim well.

There was just one issue he couldn't shake from his mind.

"What do I do on Christmas?"

Abby guffawed out loud, and really, McGee should have known her far better than to not expect that. "Gee, I don't know. Maybe what every American family has been doing for decades? Open presents? Sing Christmas carols, consume alcoholic eggnog and drunkenly embarrass yourself in front of all your family and friends? It's not rocket science, Timmy, and I'm telling you, I was one degree away from pursuing that career. Actually, two. But I really didn't care to be the butt of a common saying that would probably drive me to protect my reputation as a rocket scientist in more violent ways than not..."

McGee tried to imagine Abby as a rocket scientist, and for a moment the image stuck. But there wasn't any evidence or blood or gunshot residue. She wouldn't have been happy, and anyway, where the hell had the main topic ran off to?

"No, I mean... if I'm right about the song, I have ten more days in which I'm to receive presents; the last one being on Christmas day. That's probably when my..." He really didn't know how to word the end of that sentence.

"Your adorkable stalker who wants to be your lover..."

"Um... sure? Well, won't that be when they reveal...er, themselves?" Tim felt stupid and childish and so damn inexperienced, but he really didn't know what to think. He had always avoided blind dates for multiple reasons and numerous fears, and this was a million times off the mark of how he wanted to meet a potential life partner.

"What, like a masked supervillian? This is the real world, McGee, not the Justice League. If you've already been given a beautiful bird, chocolates, and what I am sure will be more amazing gifts in the near future, I'm pretty sure your admirer will think up something totally romantic for the big 'reveal', or however you want to nerd-word it. Like, maybe she'll ask you to bring a long-stemmed red rose and meet her in a small café like in _You've Got Mail_, or proclaim her undying love to you on top of a platform while singing a _Beach Boys_ anthem into a microphone, or ride atop an elephant down the street to-"

Apparently having forgotten her own rant about 'being in the real world', Abby went off on a spiel of different ways his one true love would reveal herself, having already dubbed them as a 'she'. Tim wondered... he _had_ dabbled with men in the past, some of it sexual and some of it misleadingly romantic, most of the relationships always ending with an embarrassing breakup or a cold, smooth brush-off and then pretending they never knew each other. That had mostly been in college, like the age-old cliché that nearly every straight-but-not-really man had in their past.

"But what do I do?" McGee asked, suddenly helpless, stopping Abby short in her speech about a wedding/fiesta which coincidentally had something to do with orangutans. "Do I say, hey, thanks for all the gifts, and I'm sure you're a very nice person but have a nice life? What if they expect more? Like, a commitment? Or a... a hotel room?" Tim's eyes widened the more his imagination stretched beyond expected normal human capacity.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa," Abby grabbed his shoulders and shook him slightly. "Haven't you ever heard of flirting? Where have you been all your life, under a rock? You've dated before!"

"Never any stalkers."

"This person is not a stalker. This is a very kindhearted soul who has a crush on you and wants to make you happy by overflowing you with gifts, you obnoxious idiot! Why can't that fact sink into your oversized brain?"

Tim sighed. "Kindhearted. Crush. Not stalker. Got it."

She glared at him.

"_Soaked._"

"Okay. Good. Are you asking me for help?" Abby's expression sort of swelled in eager anticipation, and Tim thought, oh no, he was actually going to go along with this, and was it really worth it?

Was it worth it acting like an fool and ruining possibly the only chance at having a happy relationship with someone who might actually love him for... for well, _him_?

"Just a little. Show me how to not look completely out of my league."

Abby looked him up and down, almost like a contractor estimating the cost of a week's worth of labor. "I can work with this."

* * *

Timothy was pressed against Abby in a way he had already deemed as uncomfortable, one hand resting on her chain-adorned hip, the other at the base of her neck, trying desperately to overcome his urge to pull away when she kept growling breathy, annoying instructions into his ear, and that, unfortunately, was where Tony found them.

"McGee, it's _all_ in the _eyes_. And your body language is seriously leaving little to the imagination."

"I don't want to imagine anything; this is you we're talking about," McGee whined and Abby raised an authoritative eyebrow.

"I mean..."

"Ugh, I can't do this if you're going to be a baby about it. Toddlers have a greater attention span than you, Tim."

"And that, my dear Miss Scuito, is the understatement of the century."

McGee bit back a yelp as he dropped his hands and tried not to appear as horribly disconcerted as he felt. "Damn it, Tony..."

"Seriously, probie. There are laws against this kind of thing. Granted, they're Gibbs' laws, but even you should know not to defy rule number twelve... the holidays are fun, but there's no need for geeks to get frisky."

Abby hit him. "Who are you calling a geek?"

"Ow. I forgot who I'm dealing with." Tony grinned, all white sparkly teeth and Tim couldn't help but notice the crisp white shirt under a black vest that left _plenty_ to the imagination.

"Abby was helping me with something."

"How to piss off your boss in ten different ways? McGoo, I'm an _expert_ at that game. Lemme show you the rules..."

Abby spoke, then, loudly and Tim almost hated her in that second. "I was teaching McGee the pristine art of seduction."

Tony's grin slipped into an 'o' of surprise, mirth, and impish intent all in a millisecond. "Reeeeally? Master Abby, I should have known." He pressed his palms together and mock bowed. "And how is our young Padawon learning said art? Quite poorly, might I ask?"

"Let's just say he's being a stubborn _girl_, to put it simply," Abby added with a vicious glare in Tim's direction, who returned it gladly with twice the malice.

"Ah, of course..."

Tim sputtered, which only succeeded in making himself look worse, but he crossed his arms and emerald eyes flashed and Tony tried to contain himself. McGee was an odd mixture of unassailable and adorable in the stance that was most likely meant to be threatening, but... Tony blinked. There was something in that face. He hated that face with those _eyes_ that could melt the most hardened warrior's heart. Tony had never been a warrior, but Gibbs had; he knew that the team leader never would have accepted such a green little leaf into their team if he hadn't seen those eyes and the strong heart that beat under their unwavering protection.

Anthony DiNozzo never would have admitted to having a man-crush. DiNozzos never had man-crushes. It was against the code of everything awesome. He just _liked_ McGee; in a way that required knowing everything about his nerdy little life and his sexual preference and who he spent his time with and how and why and _everything_.

Tony was _not_ obsessed.

He pouted, pulling his eyes away from McGee's stiffened form and unleashing the power of his _own_ shimmering greens on Abby. "And you never thought to call _me_? I like, invented seduction."

"Oh god," Tim echoed from the other side of the room and tried unsuccessfully to slip away. Abby snagged him by the collar of his dark green shirt; the one that hugged his slender, substantially improved body quite nicely, if Tony were some sort of creep to notice that kind of thing. He wasn't wearing one of those hideous jackets with the giant shoulder pads that he really didn't need anymore; there were dark, denim jeans and a properly selected shirt all tucked into a slim black belt and Tony really, really needed to stop _looking_ at things. It was getting disturbing.

"Tony, you should show our Tim how it's done," Abby purred suddenly, all slanted eyes and Cheshire cat grin as she looked over McGee's shoulder at Tony and it was as if she was reading his goddamn mind. Her lip curled, and it was then that he knew he would show her how wrong she was. Tony had control; control up to the yin-yang and he would prove how well he could use it.

"Fine. McGee," Tony barked. "C'mere."

"Nooo," McGee squeaked as Abby shoved him towards Tony, and his heart thumped like it had been squeezed in an iron vice as Tony caught him by the forearm to prevent a nasty fall. Tim stumbled against Tony's chest. Abby grinned ferociously.

"Ugh, McGoo..." Tony swallowed; pushing his probie gently away, but not too far. "You're all arms and legs, like a newborn deer. No wonder you don't get any dates." _And cologne I don't recognize. I didn't know you wore cologne. It's barely noticeable, like a faint, pleasant background scent. It smells like paper. You smell like a librarian, Tim... not fair. Not fair at all._

Tim grumbled irritably as Tony hooked two fingers and a thumb, in a light, catching grip, around his wrist. "I'm not doing this."

"Too late," Tony sang with a grin. "What do you need to know about seduction? Everything?"

"I just wanted advice," McGee groaned. "Then Abby started mauling me with information about everything from how to stand when you entice a woman to where to put your hand when you... I mean, when you..."

"...Execute the dirty deed?" Tony finished, all smiles and spite; inwardly recoiling from the thought of Tim _with_ someone and actually trying to... do things with them. It made him uncomfortable, not much unlike a weird uncle, but jealously was not in Tony's thesaurus. He hoped.

Tim closed his eyes, as if actually haunted by the idea. It almost hurt; standing this close to Tony and pretending he wanted to be anywhere else but there; Tony holding his wrist gently and breathing peppermint air all over him.

"Well, first on the agenda; body language. Abby was right. You have don't-want-to-be-here written all over you, McGoo."

"Well, I don't."

"At least pretend. Relax. Straighten your spine. Look me in the eyes."

McGee obeyed after a few moments of silence; he cracked open his eyes and caught Tony's; inches away from his own and sparkling with something he didn't dare place. This was all a joke. He was teasing him, teasing him in front of Abby and making him look like a fool on purpose. And he'd fallen for it, again. But then Tony's fingers stretched, splaying out against Tim's hand, causing Tim's heart to speed into a deadly race against time.

"Good," Tony said simply; nodding in approval as McGee's muscles unwound. "Uh, remember to breath."

"I'm not an idiot."

"I didn't say you were," Tony murmured; eyes flashing again. Abby cleared her throat loudly.

"It's all in the eyes, McGee. Watch Tony. He's so good at it. I've seen him reel in tons of fish."

"Fish, huh?" Tim narrowed his eyes. He wasn't exactly sure _himself_ if he was being serious or playful. "Well, I bite. So watch your hands, DiNozzo."

Tony rose his voice to address Abby, for some unknown reason never pulling his gaze from Tim's. "What would you like my eyes to convey, exactly, oh mistress of the dark?"

"Lust," Abby purred, snickering as she saw Tim blanch, and not for many of the same reasons as his coworkers thought.

"Nah," Tony replied nonchalantly. Tim relaxed. "Too common. And definitely not for a first date."

"We're not on a date, DiNozzo," Tim growled, but he sounded more like the lamb than the lion, and anyway, even if his pulse and nervous system was racing marathon after marathon the longer Tony furrowed his brow and stared at him in something short of unnerving, unwavering concentration, he was so not even going there.

"Funny. Some of my past dates have even mentioned that fact," Tony joked with a grin.

"Hey, okay, let's see some seducing," Abby pressed, and she propped her chin and elbows on the nearby metal table and cleared her throat loudly. "Does the great Obi Wan of relationships need a little guidance?" She grinned at Tony, then McGee, who was looking a bit sallow; frozen in spot inches away from the Tony DiNozzo he had managed to keep a solely professional relationship with all these years, and if he wasn't careful all of that successful repressed emotional buildup would be shot to hell and he would have to rely on instincts and Timothy McGee had never, ever, trusted his own instincts, not even after surviving threats to his job, Gibbs, and six long years of disturbing and resonant hazing-

"Leia? How about you? You did ask for this..."

"Abby, I asked for advice, not a full-on physical representation of how to lure a woman. I'm not half... um, bad at that. I don't think."

"Probie, you do know that the sultry game of seduction requires more than one player, right?"

_Instincts. Heel._

"I know that," McGee hissed through clenched teeth. "I'm just not too savvy with the idea of performing an example on my male coworker."

"Savvy? 'Kay, McFiesty, you are not Captain Jack Sparrow and you will never be, because one; braided beard? Not your best look. And two; Johnny Depp? He has problems. Forget that he makes every woman of every age in every country declare their undying love for him and his cleverly angled hats; the man is seriously messed up. If I had no social life I would organize a Johnny Depp Anonymous for those poor souls that have been sucked into his sadly believable roles... seriously, corn? Who _buries_ their wife in a _corn_ field? Who marries a corpse and dances around with her rotting in-laws? Who, in the name of all that is sanctified, gives a barber's license-whatever-thingie to a blatantly obvious psychopath?"

Tim blinked; swaying slightly from the unforeseen tirade. "Your point?"

"Um, two words. _Braided beard._ Are your ears not hearing the words that my lips are saying?"

"Tony, you're stalling," Abby sang.

"Am not," Tony shot back, but he cleared his throat. Then, soft as a feather, he landed his other hand on the nape of McGee's neck; the delicate glide of skin against already over-sensitized skin sending an electric ripple down Timothy's spine. "This move here; this isn't so much as to keep your date from running away as it is to keep them in place. It gives you something to work with, let's say. An advantage as you lean in and seal the deal. Plus," Tony added with a leer. "It's completely hot. A lot of girls get off on men just doing simple things like placing their hands in the right spots."

_I'm sure with you, they all do._ Tim tried to smile, but it was a bit shakier than he intended. Tony slipped his other hand from its previous position at Tim's wrist; pushing it down to curl around McGee's waist. Tim's breath skipped. "What are you doing?"

Tony appeared as if he was ignoring McGee, which would have been infuriating but he was a bit busy trying not to die from all the blood rushing to his cheeks. "One hand to pull them in," Tony repeated; tightening his fingers and Tim's hips moved of their own accord; closer to Tony and he _really_ could have died, then. "Another to pull them closer," Tony continued; and his eyes caught McGee's as he pulled his neck forward.

It was the eyes. Something about them. They were dark and unfathomable; deep and passionate as they attracted Tim like a magnetic force he had no control over. Tony lips were centimeters away; and there was that peppermint breath washing over him in a cool breeze again... it was going to happen... here, in front of Abby...

And the moment ended as quickly as it had started. Tony pulled away; his hand falling from McGee's neck as he straightened and Tim's heavy-lidded eyes shot open. He could barely make out Abby's frustrated glower through his hazy vision.

"I'm not kissing him, Abs," Tony whined; the lighthearted tremor in his banter underplayed by the intensity Tim had witnessed in those then-darkened spheres of emerald only moments before. Chills traveled up his spine that had nothing to do with the vaguely cool temperature in the laboratory air. "He said he bites."

Abby sported her she-devil grin with pride. "Man up."

"Sorry," Tony drawled, dropping his hands from McGee's shoulders, who made a show of stepping back only too gladly and wriggling away from long, prying fingers. The younger agent's stomach quickly losing gravity, however, told an entirely different story. "I've cheated death enough times this month. You'll have to find your hot guy on guy action elsewhere this Christmas, dear Abigail..."

Clearly displeased with the outcome of her devious setup; she threw the lumpy leftover shoulder of an Abby-cookie at Tony – who expertly ducked it. "This battle has only just begun, DiNozzo!"

"Next time I'm bringing ammunition, Scuito," Tony shot back with an malicious curve of his upper lip. "You had the Tim on your side this time. That is the very definition of not fair."

McGee really had no idea what imaginary crusade the children were reenacting this week, but he plucked the last Abby-cookie off of a nearby metal sheet and shimmied out of Tony's infantile flail for the confection.

"Damn you, McGoo, I'm getting to old to fight off clever little probies for my right to overstuff," Tony sniffed with a pout; and like a meteor crashing into earth only to take a few dinosaurs along with it, he instantly switched to business-Tony. Tim really didn't like business-Tony. "Okay, freeloaders! No more goofing off at work! Gibbs would be _ashamed_. All a-flutter and whatnot. Granted, it probably wouldn't show in his facial expressions, but _for shame_. Santa's elves are disappointed, Scuito. I've heard word that they were counting on you for moral support."

The forensic scientist batted her eyelashes. "But being naughty is so fun."

"Nice birdies, McStalkee," Tony tutted on the way out the door; accompanying the sardonic lilt in his voice with a mocking finger wave. McGee had forgotten about the chocolate confections; he had left them on the metal table before Abby had attacked him and generally ruined his afternoon.

Abby turned to Tim once he was gone; eyes alit with a fire that probably would have frightened Odysseus himself. "That was enlightening."

Whatever she meant by that, it could not have been good.

* * *

Hours later in a high-class restaurant that Ducky was treating the entire team to, after the intense and exhilarating chasing of yet another sick asshole off the streets, McGee was seated next to Ziva and trying unsuccessfully to will his gaze away from Tony every three seconds. Revelations of love; they really sucked and this one was no worse. Tim had been inwardly going mad for the rest of the day; heart pounding into a frenzy each time the scene of their almost-kiss replayed in his head. He probably didn't have an HDTV for a brain like he knew Tony did, but it was still vivid and defined and utterly twice as exasperating.

Ducky held up his wine glass. "To a job very well done," the medical examiner affirmed with a grin, and everyone did the same. Tim cringed as the edge of his own glass clinked with Tony's. "There, there," Ziva declared. Tony went off on an argument with her about how it was, 'Here, here' and she wouldn't even listen to reason, having drank far too much wine as it was. McGee stared at his empty table placement and tried singing the _12 Days of Christmas_ in his head over and over again, forgetting most of the verses and grumbling to himself when he couldn't remember what the third day would bring.

"Is there a Timothy McGee at this table, sir?" A waiter that had appeared out from nowhere questioned suddenly, addressing Gibbs; whom everyone always considered to be the 'leader' of their group, which he most undoubtedly was but it was still amusing in public.

The table fell silent. Gibbs nodded slowly towards McGee with an expression that seemed as if he couldn't decide to glare yet, and the waiter rounded on him with what was most likely a practiced smile.

"Sir, I am pleased to present you with this gift, requested from an anonymous individual who wishes you a very Merry Christmas," the waiter announced, placing an interesting looking dish in front of McGee's table set.

Abby choked on her ridiculously expensive champagne, and the rest of the table raised their eyebrows.

Tim stuttered. "Thank you," he murmured, staring down at the delectable, glazed, brown... _thing_ on his plate. "May I ask what this is?"

"A French hen, sir. Compliments of our distinguished chef, Marron."

Ducky, having obviously knowing everything about his favorite restaurant, proclaimed in a surprised tone, "Why, I didn't know you served French hen."

"We don't," the waiter – whose name, as his nametag read, was Vincenti – replied simply. "As I said before, an anonymous stranger paid our chef Marron to prepare this as if for a king, and yes, Marron was paid in quite a generous sum of money. Anonymous stranger wishes to remain anonymous, Mr. McGee, but if I may add?"

Tim nodded slowly, a bit dazed from the unfolding events.

"If I may add, they hoped that you enjoyed the chocolates, and that the bird is not too much of a trouble. They wish for you to have a wonderful week and to enjoy it; not to dwell far too much on what the future will bring."

McGee nodded again. "Do you... do you know who it is? Who sent me this?"

"Yes, sir. But I cannot tell."

"Could you give them a message?"

"Most certainly."

"Tell them... thank you. I loved all of it. And I'm not as afraid for Christmas anymore."

Abby smiled warmly. _Ha, the seduction lessons so _did _help._

The waiter nodded and left, not after promising to relay the memo, leaving the team blinking in his wake and McGee staring down in undisguised awe at his elaborately prepared and presented French hen.

"_...an anonymous stranger paid our chef Marron to prepare this as if for a king..."_

Tim grinned. Maybe he really was having a great week.


	4. Here's Mud In Your Mistletoe Eye

_**Title:** Twelve Days To Pontificate – #4 – Here's Mud In Your Mistletoe Eye_

_**Fandom:**NCIS_

_**Rating:** PG-13_

_**Disclaimer:**If I owned the cast of NCIS, producers everywhere would be bawling._

_**Warnings: **Extreme cheese, blatant disregard for everything healthy and imaginative, yada yada, you get the picture._

_**Summary:**Tim's got a secret admirer for the holidays. He's actually not completely positive that he will make it through the experience alive._

_**Note:** Okay, so the last chapter wasn't actually too bad on the creativity scale, and I've got some good ideas for the future chapters (where there's actual people for gifts/surprises), but these damn birds are really annoying the hell out of me, and after this there are still geese and swan. I'll never write anything that has to do with birds again. Ugh... whoever made up that carol had a sick obsession. Anyway. For this chapter, I stretch the gift a little by adding something that really has nothing much to do with four calling birds, but I hope you'll all like it. It's short, but sweet._

_(PS: In reference to the fact that Christmas has passed and is way, so, so, very way out the window, I am so sorry, okay? I had a very busy holiday and the whole posting/writing fanfiction on that day or rather, any days around it just didn't work out well. So as I gradually post over the next few days, just try to pretend that on some weird planet it's still Christmas, or that these are early New Years presents. Enjoy.)_

* * *

"_On the fourth day of Christmas, my true love sent to me... __**four calling birds**__."_

* * *

After a long, weary night of eating what was quite possibly the most delicate piece of meat in the entire universe, listening to Tony tease him about the secret admirer that Abby had told him about despite him begging her not to, and stumbling home in a dazed, somewhat drunken stupor, Tim found himself... _not_ collapsed into his bed with a heavy, relieved sigh.

In fact, he was clear across town, in the very place he had not expected his feet to drag him after such an exhausting evening.

Tony's apartment.

He had no idea why he was here. None of it made sense; these stomach-twisting cravings he had been having in the past week. Or maybe longer than that, even. No, he wasn't going to make a move on Tony, or jump him, or confess undying declarations of love or anything irrevocably ridiculous like that. But what did Tim want? A conversation, or just a simple chance to look into Tony's eyes to see what had been there that afternoon? The shivering intensity of darkened pupils thirsting for something unexplainable... passionate.

McGee moved like lead through water to grasp the door handle; something abruptly stopping him short in his heavy footsteps. A sound that was most likely Tony watching some heartfelt, gooey old musical, and he briefly wondered if he should interrupt the agent in the middle of what would most likely cause him to retaliate with a stab below the belt or, to even kick him out.

His ear gravitated towards the noise, however, and he catalogued the noises into words; deep and velvet... _singing_. Tim pressed his palms against the cold wood of the apartment door, curiosity peaking like a bad hair day.

"_I've got a query, so I'll riddle you... you and your theory; divine, false, and true..."_

A single, horrifying thought pushed its way through McGee's consciousness. The beautiful noise was far too real; too tangible to be emanating from a television screen. It sounded as if it was coming from the other side of the door; accompanied by a strumming guitar and for a brief moment, Tim wondered if he was dreaming. Because that voice was deep and sensual; gorgeous and resonating. It couldn't have been attached to Tony. Tony couldn't... sing.

"_...But what about the gnawing doubt inside? Here's mud in your eye..."_

It _was_ Tony, God help him. Tony connected to a voice that sent lustful, electric shivers up Timothy's spine, and no... it wasn't right. It wasn't.

The wistful, melodious blues melody continued; a soft, country feel paired with resounding emotion that almost made Tim blush to hear it so closely. He felt as if, by listening to this, that he was almost peering into Tony's soul. It was so intimate, far more intense than he ever could have expected a song to be. And Tony sang about being thoughtful, and bitter, and gloomy, but paired with the light, upbeat tone of his guitar playing (which, seriously, Tim obviously knew nothing about the man who could strum a guitar so familiarly it was sinful just witnessing), it sounded anything but depressing.

"_I'm thoughtful, and I'm gloomy, and I'm bitter and blue; I'm thoughtful, and I'm gloomy, and I'm bitter and blue..."_

Tim pressed against the door as the music went on; heart pounding with adrenaline as if he had just ran an intense workout; having only heard the first verse of the song. He couldn't take any more. It was all he could do to not just break apart, tear down that door, and pounce on Tony's ludicrous grin. Swallow those magnificent notes. Shove the guitar out of the way and make those scandalously long fingers play _him_.

McGee closed his eyes as a torrent of lust rampaged through his limbs, leaving them lethargic and numb, and he would have loved to blame it on what little alcohol he had consumed that night, but... the music was turning him feral. Tony sounded so open; so vulnerable, and the lyrics were simple, not intense or complicated and it didn't sound as if he had spent hours composing them. They were heartfelt. To the point. Unpretentious. Like Tony; just like every inch of his goddamn, sinuous, dazzling Italian body.

_Oh, hell no._

Tim let go of the doorknob and ran.

* * *

Tony paused in the middle of plucking a string slowly on his guitar; ears pricking slightly as they picked up what he thought was the rustle of someone outside his door.

_Nah_, he thought briefly; yawning as he rubbed at a line-etched eye. He needed sleep, and for good reason. Damn McGee and his impulsive way of inhaling generous amounts of French hens; the image was wickedly and shamefully burned into his retinas.

He fingered the edge of his dark crimson guitar strap; inspecting the tips of his calloused fingers and rubbing a hand through the back of his head; causing his coffee-colored hair to stand at attention.

There would be time for late-night catcalling, anyway. Though he hadn't picked up a guitar in quite a long time, Tony's voice had felt languid and peaceful as he let go of his insecurities. Thank the lord for the apartment building and its conveniently thick walls, else the entire building would be in front of his door howling for his blood. That could have been a neighbor paused in front, just then, probably hearing something and then disappearing as they assumed it was a figment of their imagination.

Either way, Tony needed to sleep. He had a long week ahead of him.

* * *

Abby studied her glowing computer screen intently, the champagne of the earlier hours somewhat blurring her vision.

_To: darkangelabby gmail . com_

_From: debonairdinozzo yahoo . com_

_Subject: new song lyrics_

Abby grinned; momentarily giddy. She loved Tony's music. She and him were the only ones who knew about his secret penchant for the soulful blues. One night Abby and visited his apartment on impulse and heard the music; choosing to burst through the door with a wide, plum-colored grin on her face.

He had shied away, of course, wary about letting someone else in on his secret, but Abby had always been good at keeping them. Usually. And his lyrics really were good. She often prompted him to get a record deal, to which the senior agent immediately balked. He didn't want publicity. It was a hobby – nothing more.

Now, if she could ever play matchmaker well enough to not screw anything up, and maybe get Tim and Tony together... well, that would be a match made in crime fighting, hot guy on guy action heaven. They could sing, maybe; make beautiful music together (_and not just the musical kind_, impish Abby thought naughtily); sleep in on Sundays and be utterly and completely happily ever after. Go out partying until there was need for replacement hips. Argue about the television remote up until age ninety. Die in each other's arms. Or at least, in Abby's wistful, fantastical, fangirl daydreams.

She often declared that it _would_ happen, not that Abby let Tony in on her fiendish plans.

Usually.

* * *

McGee was glued to his computer screen and work desk the next day, intent on finishing his paperwork load before the holidays when Abby would most certainly drag him along to a myriad of festive celebrations.

He only hoped he would be able to survive them, along with this apparent new admirer who was intent on making his Christmas an 'enjoyable' one.

The night before, Tim decided, had all been a dream. A whimsical, over-hyped product of alcohol, sleep deprivation, and imagination. Though, the drive back to his apartment, fighting back spikes of lust all the while... that had certainly felt real.

Tim cursed at his computer monitor. It had frozen quite suddenly in the middle of his work, blinking in a haze of grey and white peppered flecks, and not even his computer-savvy prowess could think of anything to fix it.

"Why," Tony called innocently from across the squadroom. "Has the great Tim met his match in the form of a virus?"

Tim narrowed his eyes, momentarily forgetting that he had been trying to ignore Tony for hours just because of the whole lusting-over-his-singing-voice thing, and his memories floated back to that time when he had almost believed that Tony had injected a virus into his computer.

"Tony," Tim hissed slowly. "What did you do?"

"Nothing!" Tony yelped; forever the epitome of innocence as he shrugged his shoulders and widened the picturesque eyes that McGee had made the grave mistake of catching fleetingly with his own.

"I swear on the grave of Ulysses S. Grant, my dear young grasshopper," Tony repeated.

McGee was almost lost in the way Tony referred to him as his 'dear young grasshopper', which was wretched and girly but totally a compliment in Tony's own weird way. "Shit," Tim swore again, and briefly resorted to Gibbs' method of solving technology problems; smacking the monitor on the side. It flickered weakly then died in a faded flash of dark gray.

Tony snickered. "Ah, McGoo. A shame."

Tim collapsed his head in his hands. "I have _so_ much work to finish..."

Tony sighed. "You really shouldn't rely on technology as the base of your paperwork. Ever heard of hard copies?"

"Yes. I _have_. And I _have_ hard copies. Just... not all of them."

Tony smiled sympathetically, which, strangely, Tim could sense even though he wasn't looking.

Then his monitor beeped piercingly.

Tim's head shot up as he glared blearily at the screen. Even Ziva looked up, attentive as everyone listened to the computer grumble back to life.

And then a single message flickered across his screen; it would have been possibly creepy if not for the note itself.

_Merry Christmas, Agent McGee! Your computer will be fine in a second. Are you ready for your fourth present?_

Tony squealed (_squealed._) from somewhere behind him and Timothy jumped. "Damn it, Tony, do you always have to appear out of nowhere?" _No. Get away from me. Not so close. I can't take this today, I really can't._

"This is so cool," Tony cooed, oblivious to Tim's whiny parental bitching. "Maybe your admirer is a computer hacker, McGee! That would be like a match made in geek heaven."

"Get real," McGee muttered before staring at his computer closely. It had mostly, if not all, returned back to normal. His 'paper'work was flickering back onto the screen. "That is the strangest thing..."

"It is the _awesomest_ thing."

"Tony, shut up."

And there he was, actually pissed off again for the first time since that partridge had shown up at Tim's front door, ready to spin around and strangle the living daylights out of Tony for teasing him with his body and his voice and his movie quotes, and-

"Well, isn't this a lovely setting! _Merry Christmas_!"

...and... What. The. Hell.

McGee looked up at the squadroom's newest visitor and cringed. Standing near Ziva's desk were four young looking people with sparkling, mischievous eyes, wearing candy cane suits and jangling bell hats, and if Abby were here she just might have raped them with her giant, ecstatic, heart-shaped eyes.

"What..."

The girl in front stepped forward, a curl of shockingly bright golden hair sticking out of her elf cap as she grinned at McGee and Tony poised behind him. "Are you the very merry Special Agent Timothy McGee?" she asked in a disgustingly cheery voice that usually accompanied regular attendants to the insane asylum and crack addicts.

"Er... yeah," Tim muttered with wide eyes.

The other 'elves' squealed, the rest of them rushing forward past Ziva, who was looking very confused and only a bit creeped out.

"You are so _cute_!"

"Look at those adorable little green eyes! Like little sprigs of mistletoe!" One slightly smaller female elf, a brunette, squeaked over how apparently 'adorable' Tim was, squeezing his cheeks and he really did nothing to stop any of it, because... what the hell. The four elves had obviously been paid well to be so into their act.

Tony sidled out from behind McGee's desks and greeted them all with a notably evil glint in his eye.

"Ooh, yes. McGee adores Christmas," he purred. "He would so _love_ it if you could sing for him," Tony added with a wink at the hyperactive Christmas Grams.

"Ohmygosh, _could_ we?" The actors screeched loudly and jumped up and down; bells jangling uproariously all the while, and it was a really, really good thing that Gibbs wasn't there or they would be out of there faster than an elf could choke out a single verse of Jingle Bells.

Tim closed his eyes weakly, trying to smile.

"Sure..." And why not? It was the holidays. Tim was feeling a little pissy, much like someone suffering from menopause (oh no, Abby had been right), but Tony was _looking_ at him like _that_ with those _eyes_ and _guh_. So he nodded and smiled. Tony looked pleased.

"Okay, boys and girls! Remember your parts!" The blonde elf called out much louder than necessary. "And a _one_, two, three, four..."

"On the first day of Christmas, my true love sent to me... a partridge in a pear tree!" The smaller, brunette elf sang in a high, melodious voice.

The second elf, a tall, thin boy with a nasally yet cheerful voice joined in. "On the second day of Christmas, my true love sent to me... two turtle doves!"

Ziva grinned maliciously as she recognized the song; quirking an obvious eyebrow over at Tim, and it was then that he noticed Abby sneaking out of the elevator with a look of undisguised rapture on her face. McGee tried not to groan. She would attack him in a flurry of condensed glee for this, later.

"On the third day of Christmas," the third elf crooned waveringly; an older man who looked... yeah, far too old to be doing these things. At least thirty. "My true love sent to me... three French hens!"

Then, as if on practiced cue, all four elves lined up in a row in front of Tim's desk, held out their hands, and bellowed, "On the fourth day of Christmas, my true love sent to me... four calling birds!" And the song stopped as they immediately presented, literally, four stuffed _birds_ from behind their backs and deposited them on McGee's desk.

The blonde elf grinned from between two rosy cheeks. She actually looked, for a moment, as if she enjoyed her job. "Merry Christmas, Agent McGee! A very special someone wishes you the greatest Christmas of all!"

Tim blinked slowly, as he stared at the stuffed animals. Four of them. With cheesy cartoon eyes and stuffed wings, and tied around one of the bird's necks was a small blue ticket.

Blond Elf #1 declared with a wave of her hands, "A ticket for the Nutcracker On Ice, live at the local ice rink on Christmas Day!"

McGee looked over the small piece of paper. She was right; it was a single ticket for an ice skating show called the Nutcracker On Ice, quite possibly the gayest thing to ever grace the... well, the ice. Rats and kings and princesses bouncing around in multi-colored tights. Yeah, he'd seen it before. But it was nice. And it was his. And it was from his admirer, who he now knew that he would meet on Christmas.

Tony raised an eyebrow. "Looks like you have a date, McPopular."

Abby squealed dangerously in the background.


	5. Trick My Probie

_**Title:** Twelve Days To Pontificate – #5 – Trick My Probie_

_**Fandom:** NCIS_

_**Rating:** PG-13 (This chapter contains concepts that may only be suitable for older readers; please heed warnings.)_

_**Disclaimer:** If I owned the cast of NCIS, producers everywhere would be bawling._

_**Warnings:** Adult concepts, extreme cheese._

_**Summary:** Tim's got a secret admirer for the holidays. He's actually not completely positive that he will make it through the experience alive._

_**Note:** The one in which Tim is seriously freaked out and almost/maybe/actually throws a 'fit' of sorts in a fancy clothing store, all because Abby decided to mention the name of a man he's been lusting over for who-knows-how-long. I know. Completely not really in character, but it's Christmas, McGee is stressed, and his patience is on a thin wire. Try and work with me. And the chapter title was a play on that show, Trick My Truck. Ugh. It's cheesy, I know._

* * *

"_On the fifth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me... __**five golden rings**__."_

* * *

"Abby," Tim yelped as he was yanked along by five silver-ringed claws; narrowly missing slipping across a patch of ice, running into a street vendor, and tripping over a small Bishon Frise.

"We're doing this, Tim. No matter how many times you pull those big shiny green puppy eyes on me."

"But-"

"No."

"Really, because-"

"_No_."

"I have enough clothes-"

"Honey, please. Don't insult me."

Abby stopped abruptly in the middle of the icy city sidewalk, whirling around to meet McGee's eyes and stick a menacing finger in front of his nose; still gripping his struggling wrist.

"Your secret admirer will not be too impressed if you show up to only the greatest date ever in the history of _time_ dressed like... like..." She gestured wildly at his brown trench coat with too-large shoulder pads that hid an equally poor selected jacket beneath. "..._that_. I can't allow it. That's like Superman passing up a deal on maximum hold hair gel. Inconceivable. Implausible. Unbelievable."

He opened his mouth, but the forensic scientist flailed wildly once more, causing the Bishon Frise and its equally snowy-haired owner to look over at the spectacle in mutual disdain. "You're _attractive_, McGee. Anyone can see that. No wonder your admirer felt they had to act as soon as possible. The diet is working for you. These clothes – not so much. This is an intervention."

Tim sighed. Wonderful. She had dragged him away from his apartment on what would probably be his only day off until Christmas, unless some local marine dressed up as a Santa at a charity ball was murdered, just to shop for something apparently sexy to wear on a decidedly generic ice skating event date. With someone who apparently had the hots for him and his new 'physique'.

"Abby," he started again, but they were walking; walking faster and McGee had already given up on escaping because they were suddenly in a store that looked like the kind of place DiNozzo would shop at.

And great, now he was thinking about the last person he wanted on his mind.

"Okay," Abby declared commandingly, releasing McGee when she deemed it impossible for him to flee. "You're going to need something casual, but put together. Something that's sexy, but not _too_ sexy. Something that can generally go with anything, seeing as how you don't have a clue what Secret Admirer is going to wear. Like, maybe something wintry and simple; a sweater and slacks... a turtleneck? Nah. Layers? Oh, yes. Now, for pants... jeans could be an issue, unless..."

Tim's imagination drifted as Abby rambled on and on about different sweater-shirt-jacket-scarf combinations, bustling around the racks and causing some of the stiff-necked employees to become even more stiff looking, if that was possible. Tim smiled at them reassuringly, but it was a lost cause. There was a rampaging gothic forensic scientist wearing a giant fuzzy scarf running around their store and there wasn't much that any of them could do about it.

He blew out a puff of air that washed over his face and leaned against the shiny marble counter; seemingly unsure of what to do with himself. The cashier kept looking at him strangely, like McGee was someone he thought seemed familiar but couldn't place. Tim blinked, twice, trying to ignore the feeling of eyes boring into the back of his neck.

"McGeeeeee," Abby called from the dressing room, and the cashier looked up with a strange jolt. Tim sidled warily away, preparing to be assaulted by a flurry of various clothing choices.

* * *

"Tim, I swear..." McGee squirmed again, a slight, futile motion that caused him to inhale a fuzzy and promptly cough it up. "...if you would just hold _still_."

"I am," he snapped, grateful that Abby had at least allowed him to dress himself like a normal human being, but before McGee had so much as slipped on a dress shirt and pants, she had swung open the dressing room curtain and attacked him with a... well, with a scarf. And really, it was quite a formidable weapon in the hands of a determined Abby Scuito. But there was a strange look in her eyes; emerald eyes that Tim had caught with his own and seen something there other than their usual roguish glint. She wanted to talk about something. Whether or not she _could_, well, that was the mystery.

McGee squirmed as she wrapped the long black stranglehold around him, loosely, but not being a fashion-friendly individual, he didn't like the feel.

"There," Abby said proudly, stepping back to admire her work, red-faced and indignant as he was. "Do you like this outfit?"

_More than the other nine hundred and eighty-seven options, you mean? How could I ever choose?_ Tim sighed, and with momentary trepidation, peered warily into the evil full-length mirror to his left. And... well. That was mildly shocking. He didn't look half bad. McGee liked to think that his fashion choices as of late hadn't been all that hideous, what with the thinner belts and darker jeans, though he hadn't completely rid himself of the shoulder pads that Abby seemed to curse at so much.

His legs looked slim and firm in intensely dark colored blue jeans, held in place by one of those thin leather belts that, while it looked the same, probably cost so much more than his own at home. He wore a dark, forest green button up dress shirt that was open slightly at his bare throat, a black jacket sans shoulder pads, and sensible Italian (oh, god) leather shoes. The long black scarf was entwined several times around his slender neck, finally draping gracefully down onto his chest.

McGee almost felt... sleek; sophisticated.

Abby grinned from behind him in the mirror, looking out of place in such a store with her knee-length checkered socks purchased at a thrift store and pigtails held together with scrunchies she'd made herself; the girl had enough money to shop nicely, but honestly, Abby loved cheap clothing. "What do you think? Was it worth the merciless ambush on a Saturday?"

Tim smiled. Okay, this wasn't half bad. Just as long as she didn't bring up-

"Man... I wish Tony were here."

McGee closed his eyes. Any mention of that insufferable gorgeous fool was torture lately. "Why? What could he possibly have to do with this?" He clenched his fists. _No. Cool down, Timothy._

Abby looked mystified at his sudden anger. "What... I just... Tony lives for fashion, McGee," she added matter-of-factly, if not uncertainly. "He would have enjoyed teaching his probie-"

Tim didn't know why Tony was _doing_ this to him, he really didn't. All of these lustful, desiring, utterly pornographic feelings he was projecting inwardly every time he heard that goddamn name just made McGee want to... punch something or run home and jerk off, whichever worked. And in this venue, in a fancy store with a girl who probably wouldn't appreciate it if he attempted the latter; he wanted to vent his muddled feelings in anger. Pure, untainted fury.

"I'm not... I'm _not_ his damn probie," McGee finally let out with a choked shudder; voice carving dangerously around the last word as if it couldn't fit; forcing itself around the sentence with a growl.

Abby's mouth sort of froze in a half-open position, looking as if it couldn't decide whether or not she should shut it. As McGee fell to the unjustly comfortable seat in the dressing room stall, she gently, wordlessly pulled the curtain shut.

"I'm sorry," he said finally, if not a bit brokenly; words muffled for he mumbled them into his forearms. "This... um, this whole admirer business is kind of turning my standpoint upside down. Added to the fact that I'm an emotional wreck."

"Oh, McGee," Abby sighed; leaning down to rub at his spine gently. "You're not an emotional wreck."

"Then I'm a psycho. A freak, if you will. Mentally disturbed in too many ways." Tim groaned miserably. He hated this. This couldn't be love, not with Tony, not like this. It was painful. It hurt. He would rather be miserable; alone than have an secret admirer _and_ a naughty crush on the world's most elusive, juvenile federal agent. It was too much to handle.

Abby sighed. "You are far too hard on yourself. Look. I'm sorry... I'm sorry if bringing up Tony pissed you off. I didn't know. You're probably still angry with him for the other day, right? He wasn't teasing you, you know. He was actually attempting to help. I've known Tony longer than you. I... can tell when he's serious."

_So can I. Oh, god, so can I._ McGee nodded. "More or less. Something like that. I'm sorry."

Abby made a face as if the news pained her. "Well. I guess that can't be helped," she muttered as she stood. "But our boys can't hold grudges for too long. The team counts on everyone's cooperation, you know."

"God, you don't think I know that, Abby? I am fully aware of how our actions can affect NCIS. I'm not about to let a petty... something like this get in the way."

Abby cocked her head; suddenly curious. She wanted to say so much, but this was one forensic scientist who was sworn to secrecy. "What exactly is... 'something like this', McGee?"

He looked at her with bottomless jade eyes filled with a hurricane of emotions that she couldn't even think to describe; obviously overlooking the query. Tim stood, ever so a wizard at changing the subject. "So, do you think this is right for a casual date?" he asked, gesturing to his attire.

Abby stepped forward and fingered the tips of his scarf, pulling them slightly towards her. She straightened his collar; a nostalgic half-smile present on her amethyst lips. "Yeah. It's perfect."

* * *

They didn't speak after that, or at least, not about anything worthwhile. Abby and McGee argued about who would pay for his spiffy new outfit, which, according to Abby, would cause his admirer to 'jump them right there and then'. Tim wasn't exactly sure if he liked the sound of that.

Abby ended up buying everything, to McGee's horror, but she insisted that it was her Christmas present.

And then it was time to greet the somewhat creepy cashier. He seemed nice enough; a generic, kind-eyed, mildly dressed man who smiled politely as he rang up the scarf and its following articles of clothing.

"Mr. McGee, is it?" The cashier sounded relieved upon looking at Timothy's newly created account which Abby had practically given him an Indian burn in convincing him to get one.

"Um... yes. That's what it says, right there. On my card," Tim emphasized, not really in the mood for small talk.

"Sorry, sir. It's just that I cannot let you go without giving you something," the cashier replied; peering to the front and back of the store nervously. "I don't usually do this sort of thing."

"Excuse me?" McGee raised a skeptical eyebrow. Abby gasped lightly as the man handed over a pair of tickets (really, what was with the whole ticket thing lately?) that were slightly wrinkled and somewhat grungy in appearance.

"I... what?"

The cashier tried his best to smile, but he seemed thoroughly perturbed by the idea of doing something that was so not by the books. "An admirer wishes you a... a Merry Christmas, sir, and that these are not the real present, b-but you will find it in... due... time..." He gazed around again, thrusting them into Abby's grasp, not McGee's, who could only stand there and blink stupidly. How could his admirer have known that he and Abby were going shopping there, on that day, at that exact time?

"Wait! What are these for?" Abby asked excitedly, looking as if she were about to start jumping up and down in the middle of what was probably the most expensive store in Washington, DC.

"You have to go, today; they are tickets for a band in... says right there, see..." The cashier pointed a shaking finger to the tickets.

"Oooh," Abby delighted. She loved bands. Somehow, the present seemed more suited for Abby than Tim, and that was enough of a thought to make his already deflated mood lose more air.

"But you have no choice, both of you must go. Today is your only day off, Mr. McGee."

Timothy narrowed his eyes. "What did you say?"

"Oh... please... I'm just the messenger. Your admirer knows... please let me go, okay? I like this job, I'm sorry. I wish to keep it..."

Abby waved him away with a muttered word of thanks, grinning broadly from ear to ear.

"Abby, I don't have time to-"

"Do _not_ even try to worm your way out of this one, Timothy McGee, or you won't get your fifth present."

He groaned. The last time Abby had dragged him to pay witness to a band he had never heard of, he hadn't gotten home until three in the morning, drenched with sweat from being cooped up in a dirty club with no air conditioning and thousands of bodies pressed together doing pelvic thrust after disturbing pelvic thrust, dizzy, despondent, and smelling vaguely of old cheese. And someone had sprayed temporary blue hair color on his bangs and face. It took him four showers to completely feel clean again.

Abby could practically read his mind. "It's not one of _those_ concerts, Timmy-no-fun. This is from your wannabe lover. It's gotta be romantic in some way or another."

Tim sighed and inspected the brightly colored ticket. The name alone did spark some sort of interest, really. And he started to wonder if his secret admirer was getting a little bolder with the public exhibition of things.

_Live: __**The Five Golden Rings**__ in their first ever public debut!_


	6. Non Mosh Pit Certifiable

_**Title:** Twelve Days To Pontificate – #6 – Non-Mosh Pit Certifiable_

_**Fandom:** NCIS_

_**Rating:** PG-13_

_**Disclaimer:** If I owned the cast of NCIS, producers everywhere would be bawling._

_**Warnings:** Extreme cheese, lack of educational plotline, may cause spontaneous weeping_

_**Summary:** Tim's got a secret admirer for the holidays. He's actually not completely positive that he will make it through the experience alive._

_**Note:** The shortest chapter of them all. And I mean it. There's also absolutely not a thing to do with geese in this, so I'm going completely off course, but whatever. I couldn't fit geese into my plotline, whatever I did, besides randomly sticking a giant goose in for the lead singer of _The Five Golden Rings_ and that would just be _ew_._

* * *

"_On the sixth day of Christmas, my true love sent to me... six __**geese a-laying**__."_

* * *

Tim could feel the music thrumming through his skin and veins and various organs, but not the kind of usual head-banging mosh pit material that Abby craved like leftover Christmas ham. It had a rock beat, that's for sure, with the help of a synthesizer and various modern music-making tools that McGee really wasn't too familiar with, but it was soft and pleasant; like the lead singer's resonating voice – the audience was a mixture of young and old; no late-night thrashers there. It was a nice atmosphere, the concert; everyone excited but rationally calm.

_The Five Golden Rings_ was an all girl band, accordingly in-synch with talented musicians and a beautiful singer. They sang contemporary spins on classic Christmas carols, but not the poppy electronic crap that was one of the main reasons Gibbs won't listen to holiday radio stations. The music had a tender, well thought-out indie feel. McGee decided that he liked it, and while Abby wasn't too sure, she kept staring at him with a mixture of tender pride and delight, obviously pleased that he was somewhat cheery again.

Tim rode out the concert like he never had one of Abby's, always uncomfortable and sticky and wishing he would be able to go home sometime soon. He bobbed his head along with the other audience members in mutual appreciation, drinking light beer that Tony would have teased him for, shuffling comfortably around in the more than roomy space while Abby jumped from area to area looking to meet new people. He didn't feel that rush of tingling, wonderful apprehension that he had after receiving his other presents, but it was nice all the same.

And then, the final song. Maria – the lead singer with a friendly smile and golden, cherry-streaked hair – silenced the instruments with a flick of her finger and sang a resounding, compelling version of _Oh, Holy Night_, squeezing her eyes tight in concentration. Even Abby quit bouncing for more than a few seconds to acknowledge the magnificence.

When it was over, Tim was grinning despite his grumpy Scroogy self and clapping. Maria lifted her microphone and excitedly thanked the audience. Timothy got ready to leave, gently touching Abby's arm to grab her attention, but he never spoke more than a few words.

"And now," Maria called into her microphone, stretching out her arms and grinning broadly. "That's not all I have for you guys tonight. In addition to having the luck to sing at my very first debut, I have been granted a very special honor to someone who is hopefully in the audience."

McGee froze, blinking slowly.

"Is there a Timothy McGee out there tonight?" Maria peered around hopefully, and Tim could only gape like a fish in a stupor until Abby shoved him forward, squealing, "Here! Over here!"

Timothy stumbled onto the stage awkwardly, narrowly missing tripping over an extension cord. Maria, all smiles and teeth and commanding presence, strangely reminded him of a female, slightly punk-influenced Tony. He smiled shakily.

"Hey, Tim," Maria murmured into the microphone. "I know you're probably freaked, but there's gotta be a whole reason for this setup, right? Your admirer told me you would normally never walk into a concert with less than a week's notice."

Tim could only nod.

"Well, I've got something for you." She pulled something from her backpack which a backup singer had helpfully tossed forward. "It's a gift from someone..." The singer leaned down and looked him seriously in the eyes. Her own were dark violet, most likely contacts, but they held his and felt commandingly sincere. "...someone who loves you _very_ much. And you can't open it until Christmas, okay?"

McGee cleared his throat, grasping the package with a strong hand, finally mustering enough courage to say something. Honestly, he hunted down criminals for a living. This was nothing. It was just a local, low budget indie rock concert. "Thank you, Maria."

Her eyes sparkled. "Hey, no problem! I love this. Christmas is... well, the most wonderful time of the year. Give your secret lover a good, hard tonguing for me." Maria stuck her own tongue out with a leer, slapped him on the back, and the crowd cheered. Tim jumped down only to be latched onto by Abby. He grinned.

"You're happy," Abby acknowledged.

"I know."

"That's great, Tim," she crooned, snuggling into his arm as they walked out into the cold winter night.

It was. It really was. At this rate, McGee was going to be trembling with anticipation by the time Christmas decided to rear its big, menacing head. He would be ready, damn it. Maybe there would even be tongues involved.


End file.
